This Time Forever

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “Goodbye, Marc,” she whispered, her voice sliding over him like silk.

  She left, and Marc stared after her, feeling a great loss as she disappeared from sight. He pounded a fist into his other hand.

  “There he is!” Marc heard André’s voice behind him and turned slowly.

  “You just missed her,” Marc said. “You were right, André. She left because of a man. I wish I could pound some sense into that guy.”

  Raoul studied his face for a moment and then mumbled something about eyes and blindness that Marc didn’t understand and was too distraught to analyze.

  “She’ll be okay,” André said, slapping him gently on the back. “She’s a survivor.”

  Marc nodded, trying to cast off the feeling of gloom that had settled heavily over his shoulders. He remembered feeling this way once before—when Brionney had left for America so many years ago. He hated losing another friend, hated change.

  “Hey,” Raoul said, intruding on Marc’s dour thoughts, “my mom wanted to ask if you’d teach Rebekka’s Sunday School class tomorrow. She has the lesson manual at home. Rebekka left so quickly she wasn’t able to make arrangements. One of us would do it, but we have our own classes to teach.” He laughed. “Since you’re the Sunday School president, we decided to ask you.”

  Marc brightened. “Sure. I’ll get the book when we drop you off.” At least he’d have the chance to speak with Danielle for a few moments.

  Yet for once, the anticipation of seeing her was small comfort.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rebekka walked away from Marc on trembling legs, feeling her stomach do somersaults, which left her nauseated. In the instant she had looked up to see Marc staring at her, hope had leapt to life in her breast. Had he realized she was the woman of his dreams? Had he finally understood that he couldn’t find happiness without her?

  Her disappointment at the ensuing conversation had been deep and bitter. She’d simultaneously wanted to throw herself into his arms and slap his face. She also felt a sliver of satisfaction that her departure had upset him. That meant something, didn’t it?

  But what?

  He was pining away for her mother—and probably had been since the day he’d saved Danielle’s life on the train. A romantic, unattainable crush from his youth. Why hadn’t he grown out of it by now? Of course she hadn’t grown out of her crush for him. The thought made her stomach more uneasy.

  She spent the next hour before her departure trying not to cry. When she finally boarded her flight, she had her emotions under control but was exhausted from the effort.

  A man sat next to her on the plane. He wore casual pants and a button-down shirt, much as Marc had been wearing. Also like Marc, he had lightly tanned skin as though he spent time outdoors. There the resemblance ended. While Marc had a slightly rugged look, with dark hair, expressive brown eyes, and broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, this man’s hair was a sandy blond, and his eyes were green. He was also taller than Marc by a good six inches, and very lean. He was handsome, and his confident demeanor made him appear as though he’d stepped out of the pages of Fortune Magazine.

  “Hello,” he said in English, noticing her gaze. His voice was deeper than Marc’s and full of life.

  Rebekka smiled, wondering if she would always compare every man she met with Marc. “Hi.”

  “Good, you speak English.” He grinned and held out his hand. “I’m Samuel Bjornenburg, and I was just thinking what an awfully long trip this was going to be since I don’t speak French.”

  “Practically everyone speaks English these days.”

  “You’re French?”

  “Yes.”

  “Most of the French people I’ve met speak with English accents. Yours is decidedly American.” He had an endearing way of cocking his head to one side as he spoke. Marc didn’t do that. No, Marc would just look at her deeply, as though he could see into her soul. Of course, he hadn’t seen her soul or the feeling there. Not even close.

  “I have a lot of American friends.”

  “And your name is . . .?”

  “Rebekka with two Ks. Rebekka Massoni.”

  “That’s a German derivative, isn’t it?” She nodded, and he continued. “Ah, I thought so. I do know a little German.”

  “What are you doing in Paris if you don’t speak French?”

  “Business. I own a software company, Corban International. I usually send someone else, but sometimes there are things that only I can take care of. I have a company rep in Paris who does all the necessary translating.”

  “I’m a translator, too.” Rebekka didn’t think as she spoke. “In fact, I used to work for the American Embassy.”

  His eyebrows rose, and she noticed they were the same sandy color as his hair. “Are you looking for a new job?”

  “Not really. I’m going to America to stay with a friend—well, actually, I’m going to help a friend of hers out with his children until he can find someone . . . it’s a long story.”

  His smile was encouraging. “Good thing it’s a long flight.”

  Samuel was good company, and Rebekka gradually felt her tension ease. She briefly shared with him her decision to find a new life in America, leaving out any mention of Marc. But though she didn’t speak of the man she loved, she couldn’t help making more comparisons.

  When the plane landed in Cincinnati, Samuel invited her to eat with him in an airport restaurant while she waited for her next flight. She politely refused, explaining that her plane would be leaving too soon. The real truth was that the last thing she wanted was to encourage his attentions. Not when her mind was so filled with Marc.

  “Well, thanks anyway for the great conversation,” he said graciously. “This has been the most pleasant flight I’ve had in a long time.” He paused, looking at her for a few seconds without speaking. “You’re quite a woman, Rebekka with two Ks—intelligent, witty, and beautiful. I don’t know what you’re running from in France, but if you’re ever ready to stop running, or if you need a job, give me a call.” He handed her an off-white business card embossed with gold foil lettering.

  “Thank you.” She shook his hand briefly.

  She turned resolutely and began making her way to the next gate. There were other men out there, and when she was ready she would find one who would make her forget Marc. As she turned the corner, she saw that Samuel stood watching her leave.

  She didn’t have to change flights again, though her plane stopped once to exchange a few passengers and take on more fuel. When she finally arrived in Anchorage on Saturday night at ten o’clock local time, she was glad to get off the plane and stretch her legs. She’d read two entire novels during the last flight, and her eyes ached despite the nap she’d worked in between books. A glance at her watch told her that it was morning in Paris, and nearly time for her to wake up and dress for church. She wondered who her mother had found to teach her class, and if Marc missed her yet as terribly as she missed him.

  “Rebekka!” Brionney waved enthusiastically from where she stood in a crowd of others who were awaiting loved ones. Her chin-length blond hair was almost white, her eyes a bright sky-blue. Two girls stood next to her, looking up shyly. “You look positively wonderful!”

  Rebekka hugged her and kissed her cheeks. “You’re looking well yourself.” The last time Brionney had visited her brother in Paris, she had complained of her weight, but Rebekka saw that she had little to complain of now.

  “It’s all the exercise I get with the twins,” Brionney confessed. “They run me ragged. And they still like to nurse more than they like bottles, so I can’t eat enough to put on too much weight. It’s a nice change for me.”

  “You were always beautiful.”

  Brionney hugged her again. “Keep saying things like that, and I won’t let you move in with Damon for any amount of time!”

  Rebekka laughed and turned her attention to the girls. “You must be Savannah and Camille.” The girls nodded vigorously.

  �
�We left Rosalie and the twins at home with Daddy,” Savannah reported. She looked like her mother with her white-blond hair and startling blue eyes. Camille also had blue eyes, but hers were darkened with an intriguing hint of brown.

  “You’ve grown a lot since your last picture.”

  Savannah’s cheeks dimpled when she smiled. “I’m eight and a half now. Camille just turned six last week. We had a party.”

  “You did? Was it fun?” At Rebekka’s question, Camille nodded soberly.

  Savannah continued, “And Rosalie’s four and the babies are zero—well, seven months, but that doesn’t really count.”

  “It does so,” Camille interjected.

  Brionney sighed. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve had that conversation.” She paused. “I guess we’d better get your luggage.”

  Savannah tugged on her mother’s hand. “Mom, you didn’t tell her.” Sorrow creased Brionney’s face, and tears rose in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Rebekka asked.

  “It’s my brother-in-law. He died yesterday. They’re delaying the funeral until Tuesday so we can be there. We’ll have to leave on Monday.”

  “On Monday,” Rebekka repeated. She’d expected at least a week in Anchorage. “I’m so sorry. How’s your sister holding up?”

  Brionney began walking. “I don’t know, really. I’ve only talked to her once since it happened. Of all my sisters, she’s the one who kept mostly to herself, though I think I’m beginning to understand that it was more because of her husband than anyone else. Turns out he was kind of possessive.”

  “How’d he die?”

  Brionney glanced at the girls, who’d run ahead. “Suicide. He drove right off a cliff in his car. My mom says he had planned to shoot himself, but he must have chickened out at the last moment. I still can’t believe it. My dad says he’s had a lot of mental problems because of the seizures he used to have and the medication he took for so many years. I don’t know. I feel like I shouldn’t blame him, but I do. I’ve never heard my sister sound so lost. She really loved him.”

  “I’m sorry.” Rebekka put a comforting arm around Brionney as they continued walking. “That’s tough.”

  “We’ll get over it eventually, I suppose. Mickelle, too. But I can’t imagine living without Jesse. Mickelle has to be hurting really bad.”

  Rebekka could imagine it—at least somewhat. In a way, Marc was dead to her now. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she clamped her jaw tightly shut until the emotion faded. It wasn’t the same thing, not really. Marc still lived out there somewhere, even if he wasn’t a part of her life.

  “At any rate,” Brionney continued, “I don’t expect you to fly with us on Monday. Damon can’t leave until Friday at the earliest, so I thought you could stay with him and the kids until then. They have a part-time cook, and a housekeeper, so you won’t be alone without help. The housekeeper is actually going with them to Utah until they can find a replacement, but she’s not very good with the children.”

  “Probably because they’re making the messes.” A picture popped into Rebekka’s mind of a mean-looking woman following the children around to prevent them from dirtying anything. She nearly laughed.

  “Something like that.”

  “I can still go with you. I don’t mind flying again so soon.”

  “But you wanted to see Alaska. You can’t really do that in one day—and tomorrow’s a Sunday to boot.” She gave a long sigh. “And to think that the other choice in your flight was to change planes in Salt Lake City. You could have just stayed there if we’d chosen that one.”

  “It’s okay, Brionney. Don’t worry about it. I’m here now, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Brionney grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that. With us having to leave so quickly, there’s a whole list of things I haven’t been able to do yet. If you could stay and make sure they get done, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Okay,” Rebekka said, laughing. “I’m at your disposal.”

  “You’re a lifesaver. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  * * * * *

  On Monday morning, after Brionney’s friend Damon had driven the Hergarters to the airport, Rebekka took Brionney’s short list and began her duties. First she packed the rest of the toys and books in the children’s bedrooms and stacked the boxes with the others in the living room, and then she began working on the kitchen items. She was kneeling on the floor, elbows deep in pots and pans, when she heard a sound and looked up to see a man watching her.

  He was in his late thirties, she decided, and his short hair was a yellow blond. His angular face was full of sharp planes, from his slightly hooked nose to his strong chin. He wore the beginnings of a moustache over well-molded lips, but his best feature by far was his amber-brown eyes, framed by thick, feathery brows. While he wasn’t the type Rebekka would normally consider handsome, he had a magnetism that somehow compelled her to return his gaze.

  “Hello,” she managed, sitting back on her feet. “You must be Damon.”

  He smiled, and she caught a glimpse of something gold in his mouth as he spoke. “Yes, Damon Wolfe. You must be Rebekka.” He moved toward her with an outstretched arm.

  She came to her feet, her own hand extended. “Nice to meet you. I mean, I kind of saw you this morning through the window when you were piling suitcases into a van, but we didn’t officially meet.” She grinned. “At least I think it was you, and I’m pretty sure it was a van. I must still have jet lag.”

  He laughed, a warm, full sound, but the unique amber eyes held a sadness that made her wonder if he still mourned his dead wife. “It was a van. Borrowed. I took it back to its owner.” He perused her work. “Need help?”

  “This is pretty much the last room. I’ve packed the rest of the children’s things, and Brionney had her room already finished. There are a lot of boxes. I guess it’s a good thing the furniture’s staying.”

  “What about the books in the living room?”

  Rebekka grimaced. “I didn’t see those.”

  Damon bent over to pick up a stack of dishes Rebekka had wrapped in paper. “Good thing you’re here. The movers are coming at noon. I thought I was going to have to do this all myself.” He put his load gingerly into a box.

  Rebekka started laughing. The idea of this multimillionaire packing someone else’s boxes was too funny.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” His genuine puzzlement made her laugh harder. She collapsed onto a wooden chair.

  His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

  Rebekka sobered enough to gaze at him innocently. “What?” Another giggle burst through, and she covered her mouth with her hands.

  His lips pursed. “You’re thinking a man doesn’t know how to pack dishes.”

  She shook her head, enveloped by another giggle. “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s the idea of you packing at all. I mean, are you doing your packing?”

  “No, I’m hiring a company. Oh, I see—you have a problem with me packing because I have a lot of money.”

  She nodded and began laughing again. “It’s funny.” A tear escaped and rolled down her cheeks.

  “It’s not that funny,” he said, his lips twitching beneath the moustache.

  “No,” she agreed. Yet she didn’t stop laughing. After all the agony with Marc, she needed a good laugh.

  Damon began to chuckle. He sat down on the chair next to her and let out a loud laugh, which made Rebekka laugh even harder. How long they laughed, Rebekka didn’t know; but she felt the anger and sadness in her soul evaporate. The melancholy in his eyes also seemed to disappear, and a kinship sprang up between them. Finally they settled down, though a stray laugh still emerged occasionally.

  Damon jumped to his feet. “I think I like you, Bekka—I can call you Bekka, can’t I?—and I think my children will like you, too. What do you say we go get them and grab a late breakfast?”


  “But the movers . . .”

  “We’ll be back before they get here—with plenty of time to finish the packing. Have you ever known movers to be on time?”

  “You’re right.” She stood and followed him from the room, noticing how broad his shoulders seemed. There was a lot to be said for a man who could laugh at himself and let others do the same without taking offense. It showed his self-confidence.

  He led her outside to a dark-blue Mercedes and opened the passenger door. They drove ten minutes to Damon’s house, a mansion really—especially to Rebekka, who had lived all her life inside an apartment building. She’d always considered her parents wealthy, but this was way beyond her idea of rich. There were boxes everywhere, but no workers in sight, and she understood that this was just the beginning. The expensive furniture she saw everywhere would be going to Utah, as well.

  “Tan! Belle!” Damon called. No answer.

  He gave her a knowing smile. “Watch this.” He made his voice louder. “I’m going out for some food. Wanna come?” Almost immediately, Rebekka heard movement among the boxes. A teenaged boy with brown hair and eyes materialized in front of them. He was as tall as Rebekka, but looked as though he might grow again at any second.

  “This famished young person is my son, Tanner,” Damon said. “Tan for short. Tan, this is Bekka.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Tanner said politely. “And actually, Dad’s the only one who calls me Tan. Everyone else says Tanner.” The lower half of his hair was close-cropped, but the top hung to one length about an inch above his ears.

  “I’m glad to meet you, Tanner. I had no idea you were so grown up. I’ll bet you’re going to be taller than your dad one day.”

  The tips of Tanner’s exposed ears reddened. “Maybe,” he said. Damon flashed Rebekka an amused glance over the boy’s head.

  Tanner looked at his dad. “Where we gonna eat?”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “That’s a first. You usually have an idea. What happened—cat got your tongue?”